Chicken Soup for the Boyfriend's Soul
by The Second Batgirl
Summary: Racetrack is sick. Spot makes him feel better. Written for Racetrack week.


Racetrack hated being sick.

His head was pounding and he was sweating, he was congested, and it hurt to swallow. Here he was, two weeks into his freshman year of college, sick as a fucking dog. And he'd been sick for two days already.

He didn't know who came up with that expression, but he really hated them right now.

His roommate had managed to vacate the room, leaving him alone to wallow in his misery. Racetrack was a loner, but he had managed to make some friends at college; however, most of them weren't willing to catch the death flu, or whatever it was that he had, so they were staying as far away from him at the moment.

What he wanted was his mother.

Or failing that, someone to tuck him in.

Not that he'd ever admit that. Racetrack was well aware of his own ego.

The thing that he wanted most in the world was his boyfriend, Spot. Who would laugh his ass off if he knew that Racetrack was so sick that he wanted someone to tuck him in. Besides, Spot was 200 miles away in New York, while Racetrack was suffering through his freshman year at Boston College. With emphasis on the suffering.

He curled up in bed even more, and pushed his blanket onto the floor, leaving him clad only in pajama pants. It was too hot in the dorms, and the school was too cheap to have working air conditioners.

He'd slept until four that afternoon, and it was only seven now, and there was no way that he was going to be able to fall back asleep. That left him the choice of watching bad television, which would just give him even more of a headache, or try to fool around online.

Racetrack turned on the tv, only to discover that the best thing on TV was a fucking Drew Barrymore movie. Deciding that he wasn't _that_ sick, Racetrack signed online, hoping that by some miracle Spot would be on, and he could get some sympathy.

Of course not. That would be too easy.

He didn't bother to stay by the computer, the light from the screen was just making his head pound even more. Instead he put up an away message whining about how sick he was, and curled back up in bed.What he wanted was tea. Or chicken soup. He doubted his stupid roommate would go get him some. The bastard.

At least it was dark out now, so the light would quit bothering his eyes. It was bound to cool down a bit. Or he could hope.

The lights flickered on, and groaned loudly, doing his best to make himself sound even more pathetic than he actually was.

"Come on, Jack," he pleaded, adding an extra cough in between words, "Give a guy a break, will you?"

"Fuck off, Tony," the last voice he was expecting answered. "And cut it out, you sound ridiculous."

Spot.

Racetrack sat straight up in bed. "What are you doing here?" he demanded, trying to fight off the wave of dizziness that had accompanied his action.

"Can't a guy drop by to see his boyfriend?" Spot sounded amused, which generally meant trouble for Racetrack.

"Spooooooooot," Race whined, using his old high school nickname for Sean.

"Racetrack," Spot mimicked. He paused, and then moved forward into the room, and smirked at Race. "You look like shit, did you know that?"

"I'm dying," Racetrack whined at him. "The least you could is be nice to me." He pouted, even though he knew it wasn't going to score any points with his boyfriend.

"I drove for four hours to fucking see you. That is being nice." Spot placed a thermos on Racetrack's desk.

"What is that?" Race asked curiously, before collapsing into yet another coughing fit.

"Chicken soup. Your mother insisted I bring it with me." Spot snorted. "She seems to think I came here to baby you or something."

"So why did you come?"

"Because you were whining that you were sick, so I figured I'd shut you up."

Which was, Racetrack knew, Spot's way of saying that he loved him.

And right now, with Spot there to tuck him in, Racetrack felt ridiculously loved.

* * *

Author's Note-Happy Racetrack week everyone! For anyone else who wants to write me stuff for Racetrack week, just post something related to Racetrack, and let me know by emailing me at race at queenitsy dot com. You know you want to. I'm giving out prizes! Racetrack week ends on my 21st birthday, which is April 14th.

In other news, I'm ridiculously sick. Which is why I posted this and not the baseball fic.

Many thanks to Shimmerwings for the beta.


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